


My Soul Finds Rest in You

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AU of an AU, M/M, based on inexplicifics, could also be soulmate au, recursive fic, soul dreams, warlord au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25607248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There are plenty of rumors about Witchers, all of them warped from before Jaskier was born.Of course, he absolutely does not care about this, he just wants to become a travelling bard.Then, the White Wolf starts burning Ghelibol and it's suddenly his problem.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 761
Collections: Anonymous





	My Soul Finds Rest in You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



> Please read inexplicifics's Accidental Warlord AU, you're going to be in for such a treat if you haven't yet!

Jaskier absolutely did not want to marry the bloodthirsty Warlord of the North.

However, he was a nobleman of Redania, a fourth son to boot, and thus was the property of his noble father. If his father deemed it acceptable to offer his fourth, useless son to be included in the treaty with the Warlord of the North, he could not refuse.

He was just two weeks shy of his twenty first birthday, two weeks more until he gained his complete autonomy. Then, the Warlord had to conquer some bits of Redania by burning Ghelibol. Couldn’t he have waited two more weeks?

Jaskier had packed his bags in secret, hoarded precious coin and jewelry that his sisters wouldn’t miss. All of that planning gone to waste just because of some mistimed conquering.

Jaskier threw his pack bag at the very back of his closet and sat on the floor.

He had no illusions on how this would go. The Warlord had started his empire by conquering Kaedwen before Jaskier was even born and he had continued conquering his way through the north until his empire was almost as large as Nilfgaard in the south.

He would be old, except the snippets of gossip that filtered through Redania said that the White Wolf was a Witcher, those inhuman experiments from Mages. For what purpose, no one knew – or forgot – but one of those mutations resulted in a long life. A really long life.

He could have a dozen wives, or a harem of lovers, Jaskier thought, just exhausted with his fretting. His hands trembled with the need to fidget, not at all helped with the absence of his lute. (It was his father’s most recent attempt at curbing his willful nature.)

He didn’t know what to do.

He couldn’t run away, else he’d be at the mercy of the Redanian bounty hunters. Or worse, the Warlord might very well take offense to this and decide to conquer the rest of Redania anyway. And seeing what he did to Ghelibol, Jaskier didn’t want to risk it.

“I could be invisible,” Jaskier murmured. “Boring and unmemorable.”

Invisible was better than daily beatings. It had to be.

.

* * *

.

All of Jaskier's carefully concocted plans to be invisible flew out of the window the moment he met his betrothed’s gaze across the dining hall.

He was large and broad. A physically imposing man, as evidenced by the large bubble of space around him and his compatriots. However, and Jaskier could admit this to himself in private, he was the most handsome man Jaskier had ever _seen_ in his life.

Resolve, he told himself. His father was a handsome man himself, and about as kind as a Kikimore Queen. He lowered his eyes to his plate and went back to tearing his bread roll to pieces.

Then, the music started and the musicians faltered before continuing. Jaskier could guess what was happening by the hush around the hall. Nobody shut up the gossip mongers. Except, apparently, the White Wolf.

It still startled Jaskier when a large, white and scarred hand appeared under his eyes.

“May I ask for a dance?” he asked, voice rough and sending a tingle down Jaskiers spine that was not fear.

“You may,” Jaskier managed evenly.

He raised his eyes and met the White Wolf’s eyes squarely as he placed his hand on that large palm. He didn’t think he was the only one who shivered at the contact.

The White Wolf’s hands were warm and his eyes really were the color of molten gold. It could have been imposing, dancing with such a large man, but Jaskier was not afraid. Perhaps a bit wary, but certainly not afraid.

“You have calluses,” the White Wolf asked carefully. “Not from sword practice.”

Jaskier felt himself blush. “Lute practice, my lord,” he said, a little defiantly.

The White Wolf chuckled. “Of course,” he said.

The dance set ended too soon, a Jaskier’s breath caught when the White Wolf held his hand. Surely, he wouldn’t?

But of course the White Wolf would not kiss his hand, they just met.

They just met and were to be married tomorrow.

.

* * *

.

The wedding was such a blur.

It started off with the alarmed calls from the watchtowers, because a large portal had appeared in the middle of the courtyard.

Nearly everyone had scrambled awake in terror, except for Jaskier - who had terribly hot dreams of large hands, golden eyes and a gruff voice saying his name - suffering from a sleepless night and only snuggled under his blankets.

By the time he had the wherewithal to get up; the maids caught him up in the gossip.

Apparently, the Warlord’s dearest, the Wolf Witcher's and several sorceresses, had decided that they wanted to watch their lord get married. Without asking for permission, they portalled to the courtyard near dawn and set about looking for their party’s lodgings.

This led to several tables being added to the dining hall, making the incredibly stuffy hall feel suffocating.

Jaskier endured the noise and the heat and gratefully leaned against his husband after the priest had finished.

“Your Witcher's are certainly…enthusiastic,” Jaskier said diplomatically.

“They were recovering after Ghelibol,” the White Wolf answered.

Something was missing from his answer, Jaskier mused. But the White Wolf, as Jaskier had realized in their sporadic conversations, was a man of few words.

A Wolf Witcher by the name of Lambert came up and spent a few minutes ribbing the White Wolf. It was terribly informative, because it was then that Jaskier finally heard his husband’s name. “Geralt! Finally found your bird?”

Bird? Jaskier wondered woozily. Little sleep, the heat and the comforting hand on his waist was making him incredibly sleepy.

“Not a bird,” the White Wolf rumbled. “A lark. He sings, Lambert.”

Jaskier doesn’t hear the answer, completely leaning on his husband and asleep.

.

* * *

.

He wakes up in the morning with a large hand on his stomach and the White Wolf’s nose on his neck.

The warmth felt amazing and Jaskier blinked sleepily a couple more times before deciding that yes, he was still clothed, his husband was still clothed and he had nothing pressing to do.

He went back to sleep.

.

* * *

.

When Jaskier woke again, his head was on his husband’s enormous thigh and a large hand was carding through his hair.

“Awake, lark?” his husband rumbled. “We have some things to talk about, now that you’re here and my men are keeping watch.”

Jaskier lolled his head and looked at his husband. “Of course, my lord.”

The White Wolf huffed. “Call me Geralt. We’re married.”

“Ah. Of course, Geralt,” Jaskier said slowly, tasting the name. “What do we have to talk about?”

“Witchers,” Geralt said slowly. “What do you know about us?”

Jaskier sat up and leaned on the headboard. This was the kind of conversation that needed his complete attention. Immediately, he missed the hand in his hair.

“Witchers have long lives?” Jaskier said cautiously. “And are the result of some potions.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. He had a furrow in his brow. Melitele, Jaskier hoped he didn’t say anything too insulting.

“Some Mages long ago made an experiment. The goal was to make monsters that could kill monsters, to protect humanity,” Geralt said. It was the most Jaskier had heard him speak and he was practically holding his breath. “Witchers are the result. But there are some…side effects.”

“Side effects,” Jaskier asked. Oh Melitele, please don’t be have a cats dick.

“Enhanced senses, hearing, sight, smell, taste,” Geralt enumerated nonchalantly. “And we have…soul dreams.”

Well, that didn’t go where it was expected, Jaskier thought. Out loud, he repeated, “Soul Dreams?”

Geralt nodded. “Soul Dreams. After the Trials, we start having dreams. Hazy when they’re not yet born, but it gets clearer. Usually, it’s something about the person, like an animal. Or a song. Or even a place.”

Jaskier was starting to have an inkling as to where this was going. “Am I?” he asked, gasping.

“Yes. A lark,” Geralt said, large hand coming slowly towards his face, giving him every chance to back away.

Melitele, he was such a sweet man, Jaskier realized. Without hesitation, he grabbed that hand and put it on his cheek.

“Maybe I know as well,” Jaskier murmured, looking straight into those golden eyes and feeling _safe_. “Because when I look into your eyes, I feel like I know you.”

Geralt _whined_. “Lark, if you keep saying such things..”

“Yes?” Jaskier whispered, feeling daring. The air was still with _want_. He felt like he was on the edge of a precipice, like he was about to fall.

“I might kiss you,” the terrible and bloodthirsty warlord said, almost begging.

“Then kiss me, White Wolf,” he said boldly. He let himself fall.

.

* * *

.

Jaskier rode on top of his husband’s humongous warhorse proudly. Head held high, the love bites and bruises on his neck standing out starkly in comparison to the white coat his husband had gifted him.

His father looked at him with such disgust when they broke fast and Jaskier had almost lowered his head until Geralt put a hand on his thigh. That made him realize that yes, at the moment, as the Warlord’s Consort, he outranked his father and had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said as they rode through the portal. “Lute practice, you told me. But there is no lute?”

No lute in Jaskiers belongings, right. Because Jaskier’s father had locked it up before Jaskier could beg for it back.

“My father confiscated it. He said I was singing too loudly,” Jaskier said with shame.

Geralt went quiet. “I will have a lute for you in Kaer Morhen,” he declared. “And no one will ever tell you to stop singing.”

Jaskier hoped that was true. Because his husband had never lied to him yet.

“Thank you, my wolf,” Jaskier whispered.

It was only because Jaskier was riding with Geralt, pressed very closely to his body, that he felt the shudder that ran through Geralt’s body at the endearment.

Thinking he was imagining it, Jaskier peered up at his husband and found that yes, he was blushing. His ears, partly hidden behind his curtain of white hair, were red. Someone beside them made a noise of pain, a sharp elbow meeting a stomach.

Jaskier faced forward and smiled to himself.

He knew what he was going to do now. He wasn’t going to be invisible, nor was he going to run away. Instead, he was going to learn how to be a bard and sing to his husband every night. And, gods willing, he was going to make this sweet man blush as well.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I did this fic justice, it attacked me in the middle of the night and wouldn't let me sleep. 
> 
> Comments please!!


End file.
